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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064611">Youth's sweet innocence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pittbirdy/pseuds/Pittbirdy'>Pittbirdy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Before the coin toss, Drabble, Inverness, Sad, Winter, Young!Bonnet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:56:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pittbirdy/pseuds/Pittbirdy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Character study of a seventeen year old Stephen Bonnet, just before the gamble on his life in Inverness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Youth's sweet innocence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So… I watched Outlander about half a year ago and suddenly became obsessed with a certain crazy Irish pirate. I know, I know, he’s a heartless bastard and whatnot, but then, to say it in the man’s own words, there’s something about the notion of a complex villain that fascinates me. Okay, that’s cringy. Anyway, I’ve been working on a (possible redemption) story of Stephen Bonnet since August, but with daily life getting in the way and my own laziness, it’s not really getting anywhere yet. I do have tons of drabbles stored in my notes that actually don’t even fit in the story I’m writing, and I thought I’d publish one of them so that at least some of it sees the light of day. This drabble is a bit of a character study and also just me trying things out, so there’s not much actually happening. It takes place a few days/weeks before the coin toss incident in Inverness that traumatized Bonnet (and, what I think, made him snap). It might seem a bit out of character, but I really wanted to write a young version of Bonnet, before he became the evil man we know him as. I’m curious to your opinions. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p>
  <em>Disclaimer: Apart from my OCs, characters and world belong to Diana Gabaldon. I do not claim any ownership over the characters or the world of Outlander. This story is for entertainment only.</em>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>Inverness, 1756. It’s a cold winter night. Snow is softly falling, twirling to the floor where it forms a carpet of white on the cobbled stones and muddy streets. Moon and stars are covered from sight by heavy clouds, the only light coming from frost coated windows. The streets are nearly empty at this hour, save the occasional rider or carriage, men shouting boisterously far away. At the other side of the street, a gentleman and his wife saunter by, arm in arm.</p>
<p>Stephen Bonnet, seventeen years old, trudges through the snow with a half-smile. His face is free of scars, with softer edges, no demons in his eyes. The golden hue of candles and hearths, cozy and inviting, warms his cheeks, the contempt normally brewing under his skin for once no more than a feeling of empty sadness as he watches the happy families inside, sitting around the dinner table or putting up their Christmas decorations.</p>
<p>The bay is frozen, no ship will come or go for weeks, yet by pure luck he’s found work building a house. The wages aren’t much, but at least they’ll get him food to last the winter and a warm bed, and for now that’s enough.</p>
<p>A cold breeze hits his face, and he pulls his woollen hat closer across his ears with a sigh, puffs of cold air dissolving like thin mist in front of him. Perhaps he can buy some new clothes as well, he thinks, frowning at his worn knee-long coat and boots, his frayed scarf, fingerless gloves and trousers, and his waistcoat, once a deep hue of sea blue, now faded to a greyish brown and torn at the hems.</p>
<p>He fastens his pace, shifting his leather bag to his other shoulder, where it bounces against his hip. A dagger and some coins rattle inside, the rest of his meagre belongings amounting to no more than an old quilt blanket, a tinderbox, rope and an extra shirt, a few self-carved wooden dices and an incomplete pack of cards, stained and crooked.</p>
<p>The sight of the gentleman and his wife make him pause. Stephen cocks his head, studying them with narrowed eyes. The lady looks him up and down in disgust- oh, how lucky she should count herself that she can’t smell him- and drags her stiff-backed husband faster by the arm. Stephen changes his pace and grins as he starts to walk like the gentleman, chin up, shoulders stiff and straight, pretending to hold a cain and talking posh British, laughing to himself as he sidesteps and nearly lands in a puddle.</p>
<p>One day he’ll be a gentleman, with fancy clothes and a mansion and servants to wait him on hand and foot, and people will look at him with respect instead of disdain. Lord Stephen Bonnet has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?</p>
<p>The only witness to his shameful near-fall is a young girl frowning at him through the window. He grins at her and tips his fingers against his temple, slipping around a corner and into a narrow ally, where he passes a snoring drunk slumped on a barrel. Stephen slips the man’s tricorn from his head without slowing down or sparing him a glance- if the man can buy booze he can certainly afford himself another hat. He dusts it off and puts it on, studying his reflection in a dark shop window. Satisfied, he walks on. His belly rumbles, and he’s tired and cold.</p>
<p>He steps into a tavern, hesitating before spending his last money on a small room and a plate of hot food. He sits down at an empty table near the hearth, placing his elbows wide apart and hovering protectively over his plate as he makes quick work of the beef and potatoes. The fire of the hearth sends a tingling through his stiffened fingers, his cheeks and the tip of his nose, turning them a bright red. He wipes his snotty nose with his sleeve.</p>
<p>One man sits down next to him, teasing him to see if he can steal his food, but Stephen glares at him with all the ferocity a teenager can muster, pulls his lips up into a snarl, a hand on his dagger. His youth doesn’t make him threatening, but the man must see in his eyes that he’s taken a life before- and will, again, if it comes to it- and leaves. No one else bothers him.  </p>
<p>When he’s done, a serving girl comes to collect his empty plate. Stephen greets her with a charming smile, grabs her hand and pulls her towards him, calling her a sweetheart and babbling nonsense. She sits down, smiling at him like he’s a child. Perhaps he still is. He should feel angry at her gentle pity, but he doesn’t, not with the way her green eyes twinkle in the light and a strand of dark brown hair escapes from her bun and falls into her face. There’s a soft smile playing around her lips as she teases him with her Scottish lilt.</p>
<p>Stephen returns her teasing, but he’s nervous underneath, betrayed by the occasional scoff, flitting of his eyes and clumsy hand gestures.</p>
<p>“D’ye want to dance?”, the lass, Rhona, asks him, quirking an eyebrow.</p>
<p>Stephen laughs, until he realizes she’s serious.</p>
<p>“There’s no music.”</p>
<p>“Does it matter?”</p>
<p>She offers him a hand. He studies it, biting his lip, before he suddenly nods with a smile and a blunt ‘yes’ and takes her hand. They dance between the empty tables for a while, Stephen humming a filthy sea shanty under his breath, and he smirks in triumph when Rhona bursts out laughing.</p>
<p>With a quick glance around to make sure the innkeeper isn’t nearby, they run up the stairs, bursting into Stephen’s rented room. Before the door’s even closed, Stephen kisses her promptly on the mouth. They both undress, eager and clumsy at once, and Stephen takes a moment to study the girl, a glint in his eyes, before she tugs him onto the bed.  </p>
<p>Stephen is clumsy and rough, pushes her on her back and grabs her too hard, pounding into her, but Rhona only responds in kind, scratching his back and leaving bitemarks on his throat. They both finish quickly and he rolls off, staring at the ceiling with a satisfied smile. Stephen asks her to stay for a while, hoping to just lie down and talk, to share some intimacy before he’s all alone again, but she refuses, smiling in pity. The look in her eyes makes the hairs in the back of his neck stand upright, his face growing hot. His nostrils flaring, he plasters a smirk on his face and pushes a shilling into her hands as if she’s a whore, staring resolutely at the wall until she storms off.</p>
<p>As soon as she’s gone, Stephen bathes in scalding hot water, glaring at the door Rhona disappeared through, knees drawn up to his chin as he roughly scrubs the dirt and sweat off his back and from under his nails. He’s small for his age, lithe and strong but underfed, ribs visible on his bare chest, arms and legs thin and muscled, skin pale where it’s untouched by the sun. He sits in the tub until the water’s cold, staring at himself. The white, thin scarred lines on his fingers from uncoiling ropes in the workhouse as a lad, a few fading bruises and the knife-wounds. He can’t see the scars of the quartermaster’s lashes or the occasional cane on his back, but he can almost feel them burning in his skin.</p>
<p><em>You’re not good enough, </em>he can hear Rhona tell him, though she’s never said as much out loud.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter. He saw the truth in her eyes.  </p>
<p>He gets out, shivering, and dresses. His left big toe sticks out of a hole in his sock, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He slips under the covers and pulls his quilt blanket and coat atop of them, rolling himself in a cocoon. The room doesn’t have a hearth, so he puts his gloves and woollen hat on as well.</p>
<p>The door is locked. With his dagger beneath his pillow, he stares at the ceiling, praying the gods will spare him from his nightmares. As his eyelids droop closed, he thinks of green eyes and dark hair and a hearty laugh. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine her snugged up against him, warm head on his shoulder, softly snoring with her hair tickling his cheek, her arms tight around him to prevent him from drowning.</p>
<p>In his dreams, she stays.</p>
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